


Singing In the Dead of Night

by evil_whimsey



Series: Blackbird [4]
Category: Ouran High School Host Club
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-13
Updated: 2011-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_whimsey/pseuds/evil_whimsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Book Four of the Blackbird series.  Sequel to These Broken Wings.  After stumbling over losses, Mori and Arai help each other find their way.  (From here out, the series includes significant invented history for the Morinozuka and Haninozuka families)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Part One

 

Like the gardener Hito, Sakura had been tied to the Morinozuka family since childhood.  She began service in the kitchens at the Tokyo house, at age twelve, and after years of strict training, graduated to a housemaid's post.

Being themselves the devoted servants of a distinguished house, the Morinozuka men and women were an outstanding example to their own staff, of the conduct a great Master could rely upon.  And as they had been rewarded by the Haninozuka, so too did the Morinozuka reward their own faithful servants.  Whether in lean times or prosperous, the family never failed to feed, clothe, house, and educate their servants, and whether one were a scullery maid, a gardener, or a coachman, the Morinozuka loyalty was lifelong to those who remained themselves loyal.

Sakura was well into her forties, before she was judged ready for the position of housekeeper.  She had attended in every capacity a woman could in that house, even assisting the midwife in the birth of the current Master, Takashi-Bocchama's father.  She'd been chambermaid, cook, personal maid to the Lady Morinozuka, and later nanny to that woman's children.  She served the family through its triumphs and its griefs, and every day she prayed for the continued strength of the Morinozuka, even as she gave thanks for the honor of serving them.

She knew other household servants did not fare so well as she.  There were those who were simply unable to meet the family's rigorous demands, and were honorably dismissed to seek their fortunes elsewhere.  However those who betrayed the family; through dishonesty, theft, or slander, were dealt with differently.  Those people never worked anywhere in Japan, ever again.  It need only be known that someone had been publicly declared unfit for association with the Morinozuka, and no other honest employer--not even the old Yakuza families--would trust them.

It was from people like this that Sakura learned the full value of her masters' trust.  How it was something to be earned, and protected at all costs.  She learned that the Morinozuka did not bestow their trust on just anyone.  Simply because one was not tempted to steal or tell falsehoods; this was not enough.  Simply because one was on hand at any hour of night or day, year after year....this was good, but still not quite enough.  The Morinozuka granted trust to those who were absolutely reliable in every sense.  Those who truly emulated the family's example of devotion to the Haninozuka;  those whose every word and action put the family's interests above their own.  

Sakura was trusted in her post because (in addition to being efficient, discreet, and always available) she had learned when to speak, and when to be still.  When to act on someone's behalf, and when to step back--no matter how difficult that might be--and allow matters to take their own course.  When family members and other staff asked her advice on a matter, she had to judge which was best to give.  The advice they wished to hear, or the advice they needed to hear.  The two weren't always the same, and though such decisions put her into worrisome positions, she made them only with the family's best interest at heart.

Perhaps because she was lucky, or perhaps because it was understood that she loved the family above all else, they trusted Sakura.  But times were at hand which would challenge that trust, and challenge Sakura to examine where her duties lay; where her loyalty was most needed.

Not since Ichigo-sama asked his dearest friend Haninozuka for permission to remain in the Nagano region with his humble commoner wife, had the heirs of the two families established entirely separate lives.  That had been a sad but amiable parting, according to the family stories.  But this current business between Takashi-Bocchama and his cousin....Sakura knew this was something else altogether.

Bocchama had arrived to the summer house looking like the last survivor of a holocaust.  He was pale and thin, and the blankness in his eyes was heartbreaking.  It had reminded her too terribly of refugees from major cataclysm;  people whose lives had been swept away in an instant, leaving them with only memories of indescribable ruin.

At first sight, Sakura had believed what the Tokyo servants had feared; that the young master was broken for good.  That he was nothing but a ghost walking beside her, clutching his one small suitcase as though it were all that still tied him to this world.  As the days and weeks passed however, she had opportunity to appreciate the deep strength of the Morinozuka heart, still beating within this silent, haunted boy.

It was present in such small, almost pitiful ways at first.  How he rose each day and dressed himself, despite the shadows of sleepless nights that ringed his eyes.  How at every meal, he sat and made a visible effort to eat what she put before him, and though it wasn't much at first, he thanked Sakura each time.

The Tokyo servants said Bocchama had been walking before he left, disappearing for hours on foot through the city.  And he took his walks here in the country too.  Before long, she was asking reports from Hito, on Bocchama's outdoor activities.

"Oh," the man would say.  "I saw him go into the old stables for awhile.  Perhaps he's thinking of bringing the horses back?"  She would scold Hito for his irreverence, but it never helped.  
"Young master was at the pool house today," Hito told her.  "Didn't you see him?  He sat on the porch for hours."

One day Hito announced Bocchama had headed for the hills.  "He found that old goat path up behind the orchard."  The man chuckled, and said,  "Guess he'll be sleeping good tonight, then."

And to all indications, he did.  The next morning, he arrived to breakfast an hour later than usual, but looking rested, awake for the first time since he'd arrived.  He had an appetite that morning too, devouring everything she put before him.  Cautiously, she teased him about eating them out of house and home, just as she had done during his amazing growth spurts through childhood.  And it was a risk worth taking;  Bocchama looked up at the comment, and his shy answering smile melted her heart.

Sakura understood from that point, that the worst was behind them.  That even lacking the purpose instilled in him from generations of tradition, and the uncanny bond with his cousin which grew from that purpose, Bocchama had nevertheless chosen to return to the world.  And even that maid's insensitive mistake setting the breakfast table did him no real harm (though such carelessness would have seen her sacked on the spot in the Tokyo house);  the young master's astonishing expression when he recognized a friend in the delivery boy proved it.  In truth, that delivery boy had won Sakura's undying gratitude when he'd not only startled Bocchama out of his unhappiness, but then proceeded to engage him in real conversation, for a full half-hour.

From that morning on, Bocchama's progress was visible.  His eyes were entirely aware now, and his habitual stillness took on a new, expectant edge.  Sakura had often caught him staring out the windows all over the house, but lately she had the impression he was watching for something in particular.  Waiting almost eagerly for something to come into view.

It had crossed her mind more than once, to suggest he simply call his friend on the phone;  she had the number for the grocery, after all.  But the time didn't seem right to her.  The boy hadn't wanted anything in so long, he was likely out of practice.  Best to let him grow accustomed to the feeling first, and then see what he did about it.

But then unexpectedly, the phone rang for him.

*  *

There were three telephones in the summer house.  One in the kitchen, one in Morinozuka-sama's private office, and the third in a small alcove off the long central hallway.  Sakura happened to be closest to this last one, at the time.

"Morinozuka residence," she answered.  
"Sakura-san?  Is that you?" asked a young boy.  "It's Satoshi."

"Ah, Satoshi-kun, how are you?  It's been quite a long time."  
"I--I'm all right, thank you.  I hope Sakura-san is well also?"  The boy spoke like a miniature adult; polite, but serious, with none of the impetuous energy she was used to hearing from him.

"Satoshi-kun is too kind, to ask.  This old housekeeper is very well, all things considered.  Now how may I be of assistance, child?"  
"I was.  I was calling to see how my brother is doing," he said.  "We haven't heard from him in awhile.  So I thought I should call."

Sakura was ready for this of course, almost from the moment he had greeted her.  But she hesitated to tell him the truth, wondering how much this child ought to hear.  
"Such a good, dutiful brother," she praised.  "I'm sure his mother must be very proud."

"Mother doesn't know I'm calling, Sakura-san," he admitted quietly.  "No one does."  
"Oh?" she asked, surprised.  "And why is that?"

There was a tense silence, and then the boy spoke in an urgent rush.  
"I didn't know who else to ask.  No one here talks about my brother at all.  It was scary enough before he left, but now, it's like--like he doesn't exist, and I don't understand.  Is he okay, Sakura-san?  Please, tell me."  He finished breathlessly, sounding too close to tears, and Sakura's heart ached for him.

"Oh child," she soothed.  "You must not worry for the young Master.  I promise you he is well looked after in this house.  We've done all that faithful servants can, for his comfort here."

A shaky sigh trembled down the line to her ear, and Sakura reflected briefly on what burdens the Morinozuka masters had to bear.  Even their children's shoulders were weighted by duty and consequence.  And yet after watching generations of these burdens, Sakura understood that one way or another, the strength of these men and women, and their children, always proved adequate to the difficulty they faced.

"Is he--," the boy started.  "Is my brother getting better?"  
Sakura considered the question.  Bocchama was doing well enough here, far from reminders of his troubles.  But who could say whether his troubles were completely past?

"He eats all his meals," she said honestly.  "He sleeps at night, and walks outdoors in the daytime.  Now and then, he talks to us."  
"Takashi talks?" the boy asked.  "Oh, thank God.  He never talked after Mitsukuni-san left."  
"Really?" Sakura had heard this through other channels, but figured it for the exaggeration of fearful servants.

"Yeah, I don't think he said more than four words all year."  This time when the boy sighed, it was with the relief of a great weight lifted.  "That's good," he said.  "If he's talking."

"Yes," Sakura agreed, suddenly aware that the young Master had entered the hall behind her.  Truly, she'd expected him sooner;  the phone rang very loud and Bocchama's hearing was unusually acute.

"Would Satoshi-kun like to speak with his brother?" she asked.  "He's just come in."  
She detected an indrawn breath behind her, and a shifting of feet, at the same instant the boy on the phone said, "Oh!  Ah, yes.  Thank you."

"Very well," Sakura said.   "I'll just--"  
The boy broke in hurriedly.  "Wait!  Listen, there's something else and I--I didn't know...."  
"Yes?" she prompted, turning to acknowledge Bocchama poised uncomfortably nearby, gesturing to him to wait, in case he was contemplating escape.

"It's.  Well, see, Mitsukuni-san called for him the other day.  He's been--been talking to the maids here I guess, but they won't tell him much, in case it gets them in trouble.  So I talked to him.  I--I told him where Takashi had gone, but should I tell Takashi that?  I don't want to make things worse."

With the elder brother next to her, Sakura was in a tricky spot.  She cleared her throat delicately, and hoped Satoshi-kun could understand.  
"I am sure this humble housekeeper couldn't say, child.  Such things are....not a servant's place to decide."

"But--?  Oh," said the boy.  "He's right there, isn't he.  I wish I knew what to do."  
"Satoshi-kun should do what he thinks is best, yes?  Now I will give him to his brother."  
"Oh--okay.  Thank you, Sakura-san.  Thanks for listening, anyway."

"Hmm," she said.  "Be well, child."  
She handed the phone over, saying, "Bocchama's brother is anxious to speak with him," hoping a steady look would be sufficient to prepare the young man.

He caught the look and hesitated, staring uncertainly at the receiver for a moment, before reaching for it.  
"Thank you," he said gravely.  Then drew a deep breath, and put the phone to his ear.  
"Satoshi."

Sakura retired to the kitchen to give them privacy, keeping her fingers crossed for both brothers' sakes.

*  *

Nearly an hour later, as she was beginning dinner preparations, Bocchama entered the kitchen, head down, and aimed straight for the pantry door.  He was dressed for the outdoors, sweater layered over a shirt, and his heavy hooded jacket.

"Going for a walk," he muttered in passing.  Sakura looked to the kitchen window, out at the grey sunless afternoon, and misting damp.  
"Bocchama should wear his waterproof boots," she mentioned.  "In case rain finds him."

"Right," she heard from the pantry.  "Thank you."  
"If Bocchama plans a long walk, I can set dinner aside for him, for when he comes in."

Through the muffled tumble of boots and shoes in the pantry, came a sigh.  "That will be fine, Sakura-san."

*  *


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

 

For the third time in as many days, Arai considered taking the left fork off the main road, and heading up into the hills to Takashi's place.  But it was late afternoon, heading into evening when he reached the turnoff, just as it had been the last two days.  Winter darkness was falling fast, and the heavy mist that had hung around all day was turning into cold drizzle.  He was pretty comfortable with the truck, and these roads by now, but not quite comfortable enough to chance driving back to town in darkness and rain.  And he was low on gas.

"Tomorrow," he told himself.  "I'll go up there tomorrow for sure."

The truck rumbled along the winding road, headlights cutting through blowing fog and drizzle.  Arai kept his eyes forward, fumbling the heater controls one-handed, feeling for that elusive setting between chilly and roasting hot.  His uncle could always set the heater and leave it, and it was fine, but it seemed like Arai was forever adjusting it one way, then the other five minutes later.  

It occurred to him that maybe if he ever looked at the dials when he changed them, he'd get it right.   On the other hand, he'd been surprised enough times on this road by animals running out--rabbits and squirrels mostly, and cars appearing quickly around the curves, that he didn't chance more than a quick glance at the dash now and then.

A while later, he'd given up on the heater dial, and was trying to adjust the vents instead, thinking he could let it run a little hot and turn the vents to dissipate the heat through the cab.  He had the driver-side vent where he liked it, and was reaching for the middle one, when his headlights picked up a shape-- _someone in the road!_ \--through the mist.

He put his foot to the brake, hard, feeling the tires grabbing at gravel, steering toward the shoulder, and bringing the truck to a shuddering stop not more than three meters from a tall man in a soaked jacket, black hair dripping with rain, one hand raised to block the headlights blinding him.  For an instant, Arai boggled at him; his heart, legs and arms thrumming with adrenaline.  Then he was throwing the shifter into Park, hauling off his seat belt and all but falling out of the truck, ignoring the flare in his knee, as he rounded the hood.

"Hey, are you okay?"  he called out.  "Man, I'm so sorry, but you scared the  _crap_  out of me, I wasn't--."  As he stepped into the glare of the lights, the stranger dropped his hand, staring, and Arai halted.

"Morinozuka-san?  Wh-what are you doing here?" he stammered.  
Considering the situation, the young man looked bizarrely placid.  "Walking," he said.  "Got lost for awhile.  When it got dark.  But I found the road."

Arai's gaze followed his gaze down to the asphalt, confirming that yes, this was indeed the road.  He tried to be calm, wind himself down to Takashi's pace.  
"Okay," he said.  "That's good, you found the road," nodding cautiously.  But they had to be, what, sixteen kilometers from the Morinozuka house?  Just how lost had this guy been?

"So, uh.  Where were you headed, anyway?"  
Takashi shrugged.  "Nowhere.  Just walking."  He was looking down at the road as if here hadn't really been in his plans, though.  Like he'd gone through a lot of effort, and still hadn't ended up anywhere he wanted to be.

Arai somehow had the feeling this happened a lot to him.  He had that look, like maybe he'd been disappointed so often, he was starting to question why he even tried anymore.  
He isn't calm, Arai realized.  He's completely lost his way, with everything.

He couldn't remember ever feeling such a stab of empathy, such painful recognition, before.  And he wasn't sure what to do with it at first.  It seemed presumptuous to point and say, "Hey.  You're just like me."  Because things could be different for Takashi, or he might not want the subject brought up at all.  

Still.  Arai knew that look, and though he couldn't put a name to it, he didn't have to guess what things felt like behind there.  So he did the best he could.

"Could I give you a lift somewhere?" he asked.  
Takashi looked down the road, all glimmers of wet and shadows in the headlights.  Then he glanced in the opposite direction, where the road fell off into pure cold dark.

"Yeah," he said.  "Thanks."

"I should really stop for gas," Arai said apologetically, once they were both in the truck.  "It's just a mile down the road, then I'll run you back to your place--oh.  You did want to go home, right?"

"That's fine."  Takashi stretched his legs under the dash carefully.  "No hurry."

*  *

The gas station had a small rest area inside for customers; just a few booths and a snack bar by the register, where they offered noodles and yakitori.  The place was warm, quiet, and the savory scent of grilled meat reminded Arai he'd eaten practically nothing since mid-morning.  

Turning to Takashi, he said, "You want to grab a bite to eat while we're here?  Maybe warm up a little?"

Takashi looked like he could stand warming up.  He was hunched in his wet jacket, wet hair sticking out, shivering at intervals as he looked around him curiously.  
"The noodles are pretty good," Arai added, thinking it might help his case.

"I didn't bring money," Takashi shrugged.  "Sorry."  
"That's no problem. I've got plenty of cash.  And it's, y'know, just snack bar prices.  Pick anything you want."

Takashi peered at the laminated menu taped to the counter, for a few seconds.    
"Whatever you're having is okay," he decided.

The hot noodles and hot tea brought some life back into both of them.  Conversation was slow-moving, which was uncomfortable at first, until Arai realized that neither one of them really needed to fill the gaps.  Takashi always talked at the same deliberate speed, making himself understood in simple concise sentences.  Arai felt he could do he same, or he could talk however he usually did, and either way would be fine.

The food relaxed him, and once he got used to the stretches of quiet, he found he was actually pretty comfortable.

"Thank you for the ride," Takashi said, once he'd set his bowl aside.  "And the meal."  
"No problem," said Arai.  "You're welcome."  He gave a little laugh.  "Actually, you should probably thank your luck I didn't have a heart attack and run over you.  Man, you just came out of nowhere."

"Hmm," said Takashi.  He rubbed a hand through his messy hair, mostly dry now.  "It was dark.  I didn't want to lose the road."  
"Yeah, I didn't really want to be driving out in that, to be honest.  I've been doing deliveries up by the lake, and I swear the trip gets longer every time I do it."  

He toyed with the rim of his teacup for a moment, remembering the fork in the road he'd passed for three days.    
"Kinda funny, actually," he admitted.  "I keep thinking I'll head up to your place.  Y'know, take you up on that walk.  But the guy who runs the hardware store next to us, he got pneumonia.  So my uncle and I have been helping out."

Arai explained about taking over the hardware store's deliveries, being behind the wheel all day long, all over the area.  And Takashi listened, and nodded, and sipped his tea.  From there, Arai found himself talking about his uncle, and the store.  How his uncle had talked about there not being much opportunity around here, but Arai felt it had to beat a desk job, working his life away for a salary in some huge corporation; same office, same people, same routine every day until he was too old to care.  At least the deliveries got him to new places around town, talking to different people, and no two days were really ever the same.  He was really coming to like this place, he explained.  It wasn't exactly home, but it was familiar.  Comfortable.

"It's a good place to be," Takashi observed.  "Things are simple.  There's space here."

"Exactly," Arai nodded.  "You have room to relax here, y'know?  When my folks figured out I wasn't getting into college, it was--."

There wasn't any way to explain it, really.  Not without going into the whole thing; his accident, the summer after, and senior year a total waste.  The bed, the sofa, the ice packs, the newspapers.  Dad yelling, Mom yelling.  Missing school for doctor's visits, missing school because he was in too much pain to walk.  Watching his grades drop.  And that feeling that never went away, that everything was slipping through his fingers while he watched.  Like having a fistful of dry sand, watching it trickle out no matter how hard you squeezed your hand shut.  

There was no reason to explain it, he thought.  It was past, over and done with.  No reason to even think about it anymore;  it was just digging up old crap for no purpose.

"What a nightmare," he muttered to himself, then glanced up, remembering Takashi sitting there.  "Sorry, I just."  He shook his head.  "I'm going on and on about myself.  How rude."

"I don't mind," Takashi told him.  Looking at him like Arai had explained everything, and it made perfect sense.  "It's better here, isn't it?"  
"Yeah," Arai nodded, realizing as he said it, that he truly meant it.  He hadn't found any great profound answers in Karuizawa, no life-changing epiphanies or anything.  But at some point, without even knowing it, he'd forgotten to worry, or feel helpless, or guilty.

He smiled at Takashi.  "Yeah.  It's definitely better."  Then he thought a moment, decided to take a chance on something he'd just guessed.  "You're better here too, huh."  
Takashi nodded slowly.  "Yes."

"So what do you do with yourself?" Arai asked, suddenly curious.

Takashi thought.  "I walk.  Read sometimes.  Listen to Sakura-san."  
"That keeps you busy, I bet," Arai grinned, and Takashi smiled a little.

"She came to the family in my great-grandfather's time.  Knows all the family stories.  I hear the history from her, and it means something new."    
He frowned down at his fingers, spread across the tablecloth.    
"Family tradition....Morinozuka tradition, is who we are.  I was the heir, but I'm not--."  There was a pause as he searched for the words to explain.  

"I can't keep the tradition.  Things changed.  The family, my father, they don't....they don't know what I am now.  I don't know.  So I came here."

"Wow."  Arai shook his head.  "So we're pretty much in the same boat, I guess."  He chuckled ruefully.  "Hell, we should start a club."  
Takashi raised an eyebrow, and Arai pointed to himself.  
"Here's me: skipped out of college, odd job with no future, still living with my family.  Total  _furiitaa_ , obviously.  And maybe they'd call you a, uh....," snapping his fingers as the right word escaped him.

"Trust-fund leech?" Takashi provided, straight-faced.  
Arai burst out laughing.  "Yeah, sure."

After a moment, Takashi shrugged.  "My afternoons are free."  And Arai laughed harder.

"Perfect," he said, slapping his hand down on the table.  "Then I now call this meeting of the Shiftless Youth to order."  
"You're president, then?" Takashi asked, with a little quirk of a grin.  
"Nah," Arai waved his hand lazily.  "Too much work for us shiftless types."

It felt good to joke with somebody, loosen up for a change.  And it didn't take long for Arai to figure out that quiet or not, he really liked Takashi's company.  It was one thing, to talk with his uncle about his problems, and the stuff with his parents.  But it was different, with somebody more his age, who didn't take that maddeningly experienced adult perspective on his problems.  One understanding nod from Takashi was worth five of his uncle telling him not to worry, things would work out in time, he'd see.

So even though Arai was still smiling, it was really no joke when shifted in his seat, looking down, and asked Takashi, "Then it's a deal?  We'll be, uh, a club?"  
Takashi didn't think twice about it.  "I'd like that."

Their eyes met across the table, and Arai realized the thing he saw kindling in Takashi's expression, was the same thing he suddenly felt:  hope.  The idea that maybe, finally, things wouldn't be so lonely anymore.

They held a grin like a secret handshake between them, and Arai was strangely certain he'd just made a best friend for life.

 

*  *  *  *  *


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

 

Hito cradled his teacup in hands as brown and gnarled as tree roots.  "Looks like Bocchama has discovered Ichigo-sama's teahouse.  I saw him heading up there at sunrise."  He paused to sip his tea.  "If I didn't know better, I'd have mistaken him for the old master himself.  The boy resembles him more every day."

"Ah, then that explains it," said Sakura.  "He asked me at breakfast, where all those old farm ledgers and almanacs were."  She gave Hito a shrewd look.  "I can't imagine who put the idea into his head."

"Did he find them?"  Hito asked.  
"Of course.  Those things were in the library all along.  But the dust?" she added.  "I'll be having a stern talk with the housemaids, come spring.  There's no excuse for such laziness."

"Good," Hito nodded, ignoring her commentary. "He shouldn't waste away here.  Best he finds an interest, some work to turn his hand to.  Help him find his vigor again."

"And if the distinguished head gardener gets to boss farm laborers around again," Sakura remarked dryly, "so much the better."  
Hito answered with one of his near-toothless grins, and Sakura shook her head, decided to change the subject.

"I hear the Haninozuka heir has been calling the Tokyo servants, to check up on Bocchama," she mentioned, leaning in to refill Hito's teacup.  "For the life of me, I can't understand why he wouldn't talk to his cousin directly.  I didn't think they had parted on disagreeable terms."

Hito shrugged.  "Bocchama's sun rose and set with Haninozuka-kun, didn't it?  Who did our boy rely upon since before he could talk, after all?"  He shook his head.  "He's learning late in life to stand on his own feet, choose his own direction.  Perhaps Haninozuka doesn't want to give his cousin any excuse to quit early."

Sakura flicked a speck of lint off the tea tray.  "I worry about all this walking he does.  Did you know he came in after ten o'clock the other night?  That delivery boy found him all the way out on the town road."  She sighed heavily.  "He's bound to get lost in the countryside sooner or later.  And what shall we do then?"

"Bocchama was lost when he came here," Hito pointed out.  "Yet he's still in one piece.  I think Sakura-san worries too much."  
"But suppose there's a snow storm?  As devoted as both of us certainly are, I do not believe we'd be much good to him in that case."

As if on cue, they heard the familiar grinding of truck tires out on the gravel drive, approaching the delivery entrance.  Hito turned, angled his head toward the sound, and smiled.  
"Somehow I don't think we humble old folks need to worry.  Looks like Bocchama has found someone energetic enough to keep up with him."

"I'd rest better," Sakura sighed, "if he found a steady girl to settle him down."  
The gardener winked at her mischievously.  "What sort of girl could manage that, do you think?  They don't make girls with Sakura-san's spirit anymore, I'm afraid."

"Why you wicked old--."  Sakura rose and flapped her apron at him.    
Hito cackled, thoroughly enjoying the old woman's discomfiture  "Anyway, Bocchama doesn't have eyes for girls."  At her scandalized look, adding, "What?  It's no use pretending you didn't know."

"Morinozuka-sama would have us both shot, if he knew what you were saying," she chided.  
"Bah, Morinozuka-sama."  Hito waved his hand dismissively.  "Who cares what he thinks?  His son could eye every young man in town, and still be worth ten of his father."    
Sakura suspected it was because Morinozuka-sama had never especially cared for Karuizawa, and never gave the summer house the attention his forefathers had, that Hito disapproved of the man on principle.

"Hush," Sakura warned, as a knock sounded on the pantry door.  "I won't hear any more of your lecherous slander.  That's a good, respectful boy out there."  
"Yes," Hito agreed, turning serious.  "And he's good for Bocchama, I think.  I've seen the two of them around the estate this week.  Ever noticed the boy's limp?  Looks like he hurt himself."  

He pushed up from the table, set his teacup on the tray, and shuffled off toward the hall.

"They could grow strong together, if they put down roots," he said, pausing thoughtfully at the door.  "And I think Sakura-san would agree, that these lands could use a strong Master, like the old days.  A real Morinozuka taking charge."

The knock at the back entrance sounded again, and Sakura hesitated at the pantry entrance.  "Hmph."  She said.  "Enough gossip and daydreaming.  Off with you now."  
But the dismissal lacked conviction, and Hito knew it.  He flashed her a last conspiratorial wink, before vanishing into the hallway.

Sakura opened the back door to see the young man standing on the step, bundled in his winter jacket with the collar up, hands buried in his pockets, and cheeks rosy from the cold.  She clucked, and ushered him in with gentle reproof.  
"Normally when a guest arrives at this house, they come to the front door," she told him.

"But Sakura-san is always by the pantry door," he said, flashing her a bright, unapologetic grin.  
She sighed and rolled her eyes.  "The standards in this house are slipping," she muttered.  "Such a thing would have been unthinkable in the old days.  The great Lady Morinozuka would grieve, if she knew this housekeeper was admitting the family's guests at the delivery entrance."

"I guess I could walk around to the front, if it made Sakura-san feel better," he shrugged playfully.  "Shall we meet there in, say, five minutes?"

"My old age is plagued by wicked, impertinent men," she groaned.  "What did I do in my long life of hard work, to deserve such a thing?"  She turned a glare meant purely for show on the young man, as he slipped off his boots.  "Well, you may as well come along now.  I suppose I have no other choice but to lead you through our homely kitchen."

Arai followed her, chuckling.  "Is Takashi around today?"  
"Bocchama is in the library," she announced with solemn dignity.  "Please permit me to escort Arai-sama to that place, which is but a few short steps from the front door of this house."

Arai stifled a laugh and bowed low, eyes twinkling merrily.  "Sakura-san does this person great honor," he said.  "This person is humbled by the graciousness of Sakura-san."

"Impertinent," Sakura sniffed, sweeping past him with all the majesty a tiny octogenarian could muster.

She maintained the act as far as the long central hall, and then mentioned, "Arai-san is early today.  Bocchama shall have a pleasant surprise."  
"Yeah, Masao-san's pneumonia is getting better I guess, and his brother came out to help, so I'm not doing those deliveries anymore."

"That's good to hear." Sakura had been keeping abreast of town news lately, thanks to Arai's visits, taking a particular interest in Masao-san's health.  Masao Hardware was a business the house had relied on for decades, after all.    
"This is a busy time of year for them," she said.  "Everyone doing their winter repairs.  It would be unfortunate if the store was unable to keep up."

"Well at least he didn't lose any business," said Arai.  "But it wasn't easy, doing work for both stores.  Uncle and I were glad to get a day off, finally."

Sakura felt there was significance in this young man making the long trip to the estate on his day off, after more than two weeks of hard work.  He had come by nearly every day this week also, making time in his schedule for a meal or a short stroll with Bocchama.  

To her chagrin, she realized Hito was probably correct in his allusions about the two.  She wondered whether he might also be right about the possibility of Bocchama growing stronger with such companionship.  If this were the case, she would be hard put to disapprove of the arrangement, however unconventional it might be.  After all, what was good for the heir of the family, was good for all of them.

*  *

Mori was beginning to doze over the dry old ledgers, with their long columns of precise script.  It wasn't that the information wasn't interesting, but it was warm in the library, next to the fire, and he was comfortable lying on the sofa with his feet up, one arm propped behind his head.  

His mind wandered from the meticulous record of growth rates in the plum orchard, off into the picture these records painted.  The landscape in spring, soft with blossoming trees, new grass staining the hillsides vivid green, vegetable fields dark and furrowed after planting.  Mori imagined walking there, surrounded by life and growth, the scent of damp soil and honeysuckle heavy in the warm air, hillsides bathed in gold sun.  Gradually his eyes were drifting closed, as the scene in his mind came into ever sharper focus.

Until a voice across the room said, "Hey.  What are you doing inside on a day like this?"

Mori sat up, looked, and felt his heart do a double-take.  Arai lounged in the doorway with his jacket open, hair wind-tousled, and smile as warm as the spring sun in Mori's daydream.  His first thoughtless impulse was to say,  _Don't move.  Let me look at you._  But he quelled it with an effort.

"You're early," he said instead.  
Arai frowned.  "Oh, sorry.  I didn't even think I might be bothering you.  You weren't busy with--," glancing at the pile of records on the coffee table, "--something, were you?"

For the first time in many bleak and listless months, Mori found he had a definite goal in mind for his future:  whatever it took, one day he would see to it that Arai never questioned his welcome again.

Swinging his legs off the sofa, he set the ledger aside, stood and smiled.  
"I'm not busy," he said.  On a sudden inspiration, adding, "I want to show you something, outside.  Want to walk?"

*  *

The air was crisp and nippy out, but last night's wind and rain had left the sky a clean polished blue. They took the uphill path behind the pear orchard slowly, Mori being secretly mindful of Arai's occasional, mysterious limp. As they walked, Mori described his morning's reading, about the records his great-grandfather had kept when the estate was in its heyday, during the war.

"Huh, so your estate used to be farm land?" Arai asked, looking across the tree tops to the main house, the stables, the pool house, the garage, and the gardener's quarters. From the crest of the hill, one could see the full panorama of the estate, and Mori understood exactly why Ichigo-sama had built the tiny private structure on the plateau; his little rustic tea house.

"Amazing view," Arai commented, shielding his eyes from the sun, his breath making barely visible plumes in the winter air.  
"You can see almost all the property from here," said Mori.

Arai's hand dropped, and he turned to stare at Mori. "Hang on. This is all your land?"  
"And on the west side." Mori led him to the opposite side of the hill, where the almond orchard in the valley below had grown into the apple grove, creating a dense tangle of bare branches.

Arai shook his head in amazement. "And no one's touched it in all this time."  
"Sixty years, give or take," said Mori. "Probably take years to reclaim it all."  
"I bet it wouldn't be so hard," Arai shrugged. "There are farmers around here that would kill to have groves like this."

Mori had suspected as much. It was why he'd spent all morning poring over dusty ledgers and crop inventories, trying to get a sense of how the place had been made productive. What it had yielded, and how much work had been involved. The research began as idle curiosity, lingering from his conversations with Hito, but the more he learned, the more interested Mori became in the practicalities of it.

But he still hadn't shown Arai the main attraction of the hilltop.  
"Come," he gestured, heading for the teahouse.

Their boots echoed on the wooden flooring, clean but bare; the dry and rotted tatami mats having been removed. The window shutters were down for winter, but the cracked glass had been replaced, and the original paper screens, though slightly stained from age, were still mostly intact.

"Hito had the groundskeeper clean it up," Mori explained, showing Arai the repairs.

"What a great place," said Arai. "I could see wanting to escape here once in awhile." He spotted the small altar at the rear of the room, and gravitated there.

"Oh, hey." He knelt in respect to the antique framed photo of Ichigo-sama that someone (likely Hito) had left there. "I've seen this man before."  
"My great-grandfather?" Mori asked, puzzled.  
"Yeah. Is that who he is? There's a statue of him, in town. In the old gardens, by the municipal building. Didn't you know?"

Mori shook his head, mystified. "I've never been to the gardens. Are you sure it's him? Morinozuka Ichigo?"  
"Positive," said Arai. "I didn't know the name, but I'd remember that look anywhere. The first time I saw the statue, I thought it reminded me so much...." He trailed off and, catching his slight blush, Mori was intrigued. He knew what Arai had almost said, of course.

"It's all right," he grinned wryly. "I've been compared to him since I was fourteen. I'm used to it." Though why Arai would blush over the admission was a curiosity that lingered with him awhile.

* *

"So," said Arai, once they were back out on the wide steps of the tea house. "Do you plan to fix the place up?"  
"This spring, maybe," Mori considered. He led them back across the hilltop, to the path leading down. "Sand the floors, replace the tatami."

Several steps further, Arai chuckled to himself and Mori looked over.  
"You could make it a clubhouse," he grinned. "For the Shiftless Youth. Put up a sign that says Keep Ou--Oww!"

His foot slipped on some loose rock, and Mori instinctively threw out his arm to steady him, but Arai yelped with pain as his knees gave way, and Mori grabbed him just in time to ease him to the ground. The young man lay tensed and white, and Mori leaned over him, his heart thumping hard in his chest.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Where does it hurt?"  
"Ahhh!" Arai shouted, and pounded his fist into the gravel. "Dammit, dammit, damn it!"

"Arai." Mori urged. He was aware of his hands shaking slightly, as a recollection he'd thought long buried clawed its way to the surface.

Arai gasped and opened his eyes. "Morinozuka-san, I'm so sorry. So stupid." He lay on his back, legs askew and fists clenched, blinking his suddenly wet eyelashes.

 _Like Nakamura..._ , came the memory, in a stark strobe-light flash. Hurt and raging. Flat on his back in the ring, shouting at the rafters.

Mori shook his head hard, fighting the image, and gripped Arai's shoulder.  
"Look at me," he said. "What can I do?"

Two judges and a medic carrying him off. While Mori had stood useless. Because of the goddamned rules. Because Nakamura hated pity more than anything.

"I'm--I'm good," Arai insisted. "Just....I'll be fine in a minute."

He had thrashed like a crippled horse, trying to rise. Demanding they let him finish the match. But he couldn't even stand.

Mori felt sick. His chest ached like it wanted to burst, and he counted Arai's breaths, harsh and regular. Arai was breathing through the pain, he realized. Like a veteran would.

"What's wrong with your leg?" he asked abruptly. "This is why you limp, isn't it."  
"It's nothing!" Arai snapped, more angry than hurt now. "I'm--could you please leave it?" Blinking harder, turning away defensively.

Nakamura used to wink to distract him. _"I'm kicking your ass today, Morinozuka."_  He was tall and fiery with a devilish, arresting smile, but the kendo ring had been his true element; there Nakamura had moved with a fearsome beauty that used to leave Mori breathless.

There was no choice about it, really. Mori dropped to the gravel next to Arai, settling in stubbornly.  
"No," he said. "I'm sorry. I won't leave it." 

The end of that last match had given him nightmares. Everything he'd loved about Kendo had died when they carried Nakamura off, when the medic said he wasn't coming back. Now, after all these months in isolation, Mori knew he was done again. Done with letting go, abdicating each thing he dared to hope for. He was sick of fearing he'd tempted fate by wanting anything.

He looked down at Arai, who lay seething with shame, hurt, and a frustrated powerlessness that Mori knew too intimately.

"Are we friends?" he asked. As he'd hoped, the question momentarily startled the young man out of his turmoil.  
"What do you mean?" Turning to give Mori a guarded look.

"If we're friends, then you can trust me. Right or wrong?"  
Arai glanced away, conflicted. He bit his lip, and wrestled several moments with his uncertainty. After some thought, it apparently became clear to him that he couldn't get away, and that Mori had no intention of giving an inch.

Gradually he subsided, and then in a small voice, he said, "I wanted to be friends with you. For a long time."

"How long?" Mori encouraged, hoping to keep him talking.

"Since....you remember that time at Misuzu's? When you fixed that fence?"  
Mori nodded. How could he ever possibly forget?

"I wondered, after that day. After you left, what it would be like. If we had....I dunno. If we'd had more time. I used to think about that day a lot, and." He gave a little shrug. "I just wondered."

 _No._  Mori thought numbly.  _That's impossible._  He felt something flaring dangerously in him, and his first impulse was to stifle it. Change the subject, put it from his mind. But then he realized that doing the same thing he'd done habitually since that day at the pension, was just another way of abdicating. Giving up his chances before he'd even grasped them.

So instead, he took a deep breath and summoned all his courage.

"You too?" He trained his eyes on the horizon, not daring to look down. He thought his heart would stop, when he sensed Arai shifting next to him; when from the corner of his eye, Mori saw him cautiously raising up on his elbows.

"You're serious," the young man breathed, after taking a long look at him. "Morinozuka-san."  
Turning to face Arai's look of shy, guileless amazement nearly undid him. 

"Please let me help my friend," he said, more than willing to beg if he had to.

But Arai only shook his head, wearily. "I'm sorry. There isn't anything you can do. This just happens sometimes. I didn't want you to find out, that I'm--," waving his hand toward his legs with a sad chuckle, "--well, lame, basically."

Mori tried to think of what might help to ease Arai's discomfort, make him more willing to trust.  
"I promise I won't hurt you." He glanced down at how Arai had shifted after he'd fallen. "It's the left knee," he guessed aloud.

"How'd you know?" Arai frowned.  
"You favor your left leg, when you limp," Mori answered. "And I've seen knee injuries in the doujo." 

In actual point of fact, his Sensei had taught anatomy in terms of possible injuries in Kendo, Judo, and Karate, as an aid to instilling proper technique. Mori had long been on respectful terms with the hamstring, rotator cuff, anterior cruciate ligament, ulna, and Achilles tendon, to name a bare few.

He shifted downhill slightly, and raised his hands. "May I?"  
Arai worried at his bottom lip with his teeth, visibly working up his nerve. "Okay," he finally surrendered.

Pressing at the fabric of Arai's work trousers, Mori was relieved to feel nothing twisted or displaced around the knee.  
"When did you hurt it?" he asked.

"About a year and a half ago, I guess," Arai said, watching him nervously, too ready to flinch. "I fell in a soccer match."  
Mori stilled. "That long?" He kept his tone and expression steady, but inside he was aghast at the implications. 

Arai had explained coming to stay with his uncle to avoid problems at home. He'd spoken only vaguely about the problems themselves, though. Hinting at trouble with his grades, difficulty getting into college. But Mori sensed some thread of connection now, between this injury that still disabled Arai, and all the rest.

"I've been wearing a brace most of the time," Arai went on. "It's what the doctors said to do." He shook his head angrily. "I was stupid. I thought I could leave it off today."

Mori didn't comment, he only continued to probe gently around the knee with his fingertips. He put his thumbs to either side of the patella, and felt the unusual heat radiating from the area.  
"It's starting to swell," he mentioned, pressing slightly deeper, toward the base of the knee. Arai hissed in a breath, and Mori immediately let go.

"That hurts?" he asked.  
"No," said Arai. "It's just weird. Things are....loose, right there."  
"You must have pulled that tendon badly," Mori nodded. "But it should be tighter by now." He circled Arai's quadriceps, just above the knee, with his hands, and then switched to the other leg to feel for comparison.

"Oh. That's why."  
"Why what?" Arai asked.

Mori put one hand over Arai's shin, and touched his ankle with the other hand. "Flex your foot up, just from the ankle."  
Arai tried it, curiously.  
"Good, now flex down." Mori switched to the good leg, and repeated the process.

"It's your muscles," he finally explained. "After you were hurt, were you off your feet a long time?"  
"Pretty much all summer," Arai nodded grimly.  
"And then you wore the brace, and limped." Mori concluded. "Now your muscles are imbalanced, and straining the joint."

"But then--." Arai made an exasperated sound. "All those doctors telling me to take it easy, was just making it worse?"  
Mori shook his head. "With this kind of injury, you have to rest. But eventually, the muscles and tendons need strengthening."

"I don't get it. How do you do both?"  
Mori thought back to Sensei's anatomy lessons, and the injuries he'd seen other martial artists recover from. "Well," he said, "there are special forms of some kata that--." He halted, as an idea struck him, and looked to see Arai regarding him expectantly. With intense, frightening hope.

"If I help you, could you make it to the house?" he asked. "There's someone I want to call."

 

* *

 

They made the trip back without incident, but in the rear courtyard, Arai asked him to stop.

"I'm sorry for the way I acted up there," he said. "It was selfish. I know you were just trying to help."  
"It's okay," Mori told him. And it was. At least Arai was letting him help now.

Arai wasn't finished, however. "I didn't want you to think less of me," he admitted. "Because I really think a lot of you."

Mori could only stare dumbly at the young man leaning on his arm, with his downcast look and cheeks flushed in shame. All at once, he understood that someone had thought less of Arai, for what had happened to him. Someone he'd relied upon had made Arai feel as if he were to blame, for circumstances beyond his control.

And right in that moment, if Mori could have identified that someone, he would have made them hurt.

"Arai....," he began. 

But then all he could think was,  _You. It was always you._  Maybe there could have been something with Nakamura; somewhere beneath the heated contest of wills and ferocious chemistry. They had sparred back and forth for a year; whereas Arai had found his way to Mori's heart in a single afternoon, had struck him to the core with nothing but open-hearted innocence, leaving a mark that remained despite everything.

And yet Arai had no idea; he hesitated to interrupt Mori lazing on the sofa, and even in his extremity, Arai would rather suffer alone than burden Mori with his misfortune. Because he had no sense of his own worth, in Mori's eyes. 

It did no one any favors, he realized, allowing Arai to continue underestimating himself. Something needed to be said.

"Do you know why I choose you for a friend?" he finally asked.  
The young man shook his head, still staring at the paving stones. Mori reached over and smoothed his thumb across the lines in Arai's forehead, then guided Arai's chin up with a light touch of fingertips, to look him in the eye.

"You teach me about courage. And strength. I thought I understood those things, but the more I know you, the more I learn."

Arai listened intently, less afraid now than honestly skeptical. "Strength?" he asked. "I'm not all that strong."

"You are where it counts," Mori assured him. He let his hand drop. "Don't forget: I choose you. And I'd never think less of you, for telling the truth."

Those large, dark eyes fixed on Mori; weighed his words, and measured him with great care. Then Arai's chin tilted up a fraction, and his shoulders squared decisively.

"If you say so," he said. "Then I'll--I won't forget next time."

 

* * * * * 


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four

 

Sakura was setting the table for lunch, when the young men staggered through the courtyard door.  She took one look at them, and dropped the silverware.

"Bocchama!" she gasped.  
"Is there somewhere Arai could sit comfortably?" the young master asked, with the uncanny dignity only a Morinozuka could manage in such circumstances.  The young man leaning heavily on Bocchama's arm looked up and offered her a game, slightly frazzled smile.

"Sorry to be so much trouble," he said.

"Arai-kun!" Sakura said.  "What on earth happened?  Should I call a doctor?"    
She hurried over to them anxiously, as Arai was saying, "No, no I'll be fine, and Bocchama added, "He needs somewhere to put his leg up.  And some ice, please."

Sakura rallied as best she could.  "Here, put him next to the sideboard," indicating a plush club chair, off against the wall.  She dragged a nearby dining chair over, as Bocchama helped his friend settle in, and then she was off to the pantry freezer for ice.

On her return, the young master was just propping Arai's leg on the dining chair seat, cradling the limb gently, as if it were made of hand-blown glass.  
"Sakura-san can bring you whatever you need," he said.  "And I'll be back soon."  
The two young men shared a look heavy with unspoken meaning, and then Arai said, "Thank you, Morinozuka-san."

The young master nodded, and turned to Sakura, who was unable to contain herself.  
"Bocchama, what happened to your--."

"He can explain it to you, Sakura-san.  But first, I'd like Mitsukuni's phone number, please."

She blinked, finding herself on thin ice without warning.  Stalling for time to think, she headed toward Arai-kun with the ice pack.  
"I--I am sure Bocchama knows his cousin is still traveling.  It may be difficult to say for certain how we could locate--."

"Sakura-san," the young man broke in again, gently.  "It's all right.  I know that my cousin calls the house staff.  And I know they pass his phone numbers on to you.  I trust your loyalty, and I'm not angry.  But I need to ask Mitsukuni how to help my friend.  I would not ask if this weren't important.  So please...."

For a moment, beneath that even tone, their quiet unflappable Takashi-sama projected the uncompromising authority of a true Morinozuka master.  It was like seeing a bright light emerge from beneath a bushel; he stood tall and resolute, radiating purpose.

Sakura glanced to their guest, who--caught in the midst of private family conversation--was doing his best to disappear into the chair upholstery.  And she could hardly blame him.  She handed the ice pack to Arai with an encouraging look, and then turned to bow respectfully to the waiting man.

"Very well.  It shall be as the Master wishes.  I have the number written down in the kitchen, if Master would care to follow."

*  *

Bocchama took the number to his father's study, and Sakura returned to poor Arai, in the dining room.  
"Can I bring you lunch, child?  Or tea?  Are you comfortable?"

"I'm fine, Sakura-san.  Thank you.  I'll wait until Morinozuka-san comes back, for lunch."  
"He may be a long time.  It's been--a while since he spoke with his cousin.  In the meanwhile, I shall keep you company, all right?"

"I don't want to put you to any trouble," Arai said earnestly.  "I mean, if you have other work to do, I don't mind just waiting."  
"Nonsense," Sakura told him.  "Bocchama said I was to make sure his guest is looked after, and that is the most important thing right now.  Is your ice pack comfortable?  Can I get you a second one?"

"No, it's great, really.  This isn't anything serious, I was just clumsy, coming down the hill with Morinozuka-san.  My knee slipped.  It's happened a few times before, but it's always okay after."

"And yet Bocchama is suddenly calling his cousin?" she asked.  "He must think the situation is serious."  
Arai shrugged.  "Morinozuka-san thinks there's a way to help my knee get stronger, so it doesn't slip anymore.  I'm not sure what Mitsukuni-san has to do with it, though."

However it did make sense to Sakura, then.  Haninozuka-style fighting resulted in more frequent injuries than Kendo, and she had a strong hunch that Bocchama was calling his cousin for a consultation.  

"Well," she said.  "If Bocchama says there is a way to make it better, then I'm certain that is the case."

The young man nodded thoughtfully, then said, "Sakura-san, may I ask a question?  I'll understand if it's--if you can't answer.  But I just wondered, what happened between Morinozuka-san and his cousin?"

"Bocchama hasn't told you?" she asked.  Unsurprisingly, the boy shook his head, no.  

Likely anticipating such a question, Bocchama had given her permission, in the kitchen, to explain the situation to his friend.  And if she had lacked any conviction that these young men were indeed close, that permission certainly made up for it.

She drew up a second dining chair, turning it to face their guest, and sat with a sigh.  
"Bocchama could explain the specifics better than this housekeeper could hope to," she told him.  "But there is a history to the situation, which he may not make clear, for he has taken certain things for granted his entire life."

Seeing the young man's confusion, she said, "I will tell you the history of the Haninozukas and the Morinozukas, in brief.  Then you will understand the facts behind what has happened.  Bocchama himself has told no one the exact details.  But I can tell you what I think happened, and why.  And this will help you, if he chooses to tell you the rest.  All right?"

Arai nodded.  "Okay.

"We should begin with the end of the Edo period, around Eighteen-Fifty," said Sakura.

Arai started.  "I'm sorry, did you say...."

"I told you there was history here, didn't I?" Sakura said.  "It's very quick to explain, but the first thing you must understand about these families, is the power their promises hold with them.  It has kept them together all this time."

Arai's look turned queerly reminiscent.  "I--I think Morinozuka-san mentioned something like that.  I just didn't imagine it went back that far."  
"Well listen now," Sakura told him.  "And try to imagine what I tell you..."

 

*  *

 

"...Poor Arai-kun," Mitsukuni sighed.  "All this time he couldn't play soccer, or run, or do anything he enjoys.  It must be terrible for him."

"He would be happy enough to move freely," said Mori.  "But I think he could do better.  I want to help him do better."

"It will be hard work for him," Mitsukuni cautioned.  "He might get discouraged if he doesn't see progress.  Have you thought about what you'll do then?"

Mori thought of the look in Arai's eyes, given a mere hint at a possibility for his recovery.  He could only imagine how the young man might look, if such a deep and hungry hope were actually fulfilled.

"I'll do whatever I have to," Mori told his cousin. "He's been alone, and discouraged already.  He can't help that he falls, or that he hurts.  Yet he gets up every time and goes forward again."

There was a thoughtful silence, and then Mitsukuni said, "I can see why you want to do this.  Arai-kun sounds....like someone special."  
"He is," Mori admitted.  His next words felt almost disloyal to him, but Mitsukuni had understood--even before Mori--that one day such a conversation might come to pass. "He's....an exceptional person."

"I think," said Mitsukuni, after a long pause, "that you should start slowly with him at first.  He needs to understand how important patience is, before anything.  Do you remember our first lessons with Sensei?"

"The balance lessons?" Mori asked, searching his memory.  
"Hmm," Mitsukuni agreed.  "Begin with those.  Teach him how to stretch, and how to stand the way we learned to.  After that, start showing him the balance poses...."

*  *

"...Hold on," Arai was saying.  "I'm sorry, I just want to make sure I have this straight.  So Ichigo's daughter, Takashi-san's great-aunt--."  
"That's right. Saiko-chan," Sakura provided.  
"She married the Haninozuka heir, and became Mitsukuni-san's grandmother?"  
"Precisely."

"And her brother, Takashi grandfather, moved with them to Tokyo.  But Ichigo stayed behind, here, with his wife."  
"Yes, because all his wife's family was here.  Ichigo-sama never cared for the city, I think," Sakura added.

"Okay," said Arai, still struggling to keep the names straight in his mind.  "So the whole intention of....Saiko....marrying Mitsukuni's grandfather was--what, exactly?"

"Remember what I said about the Morinozuka being a noble family in their own right?" she asked.  "They were never truly servant-class, as the old rules would have it.  But they had promised themselves as retainers to the Haninozuka, and were considered servants in the years after."

"What's the difference, if they were considered servants?" Arai asked.

"Well, take my position, as an example," said Sakura.  "I have been a servant of the Morinozuka all my life, and the children I helped raise might even look on me as part of the family.  But I do not take my meals with the family, and I do not enjoy their privileges.  I am not of their class; I am a servant of their class.  It was the same between the Morinozuka and the Haninozuka, until Ichigo-sama and his closest friend, Haninozuka-sama moved to change that."

"Oh," Arai said.  "Because of that marriage, they were the same class again.  I get it."

"In simple terms, yes.  However, Saiko-chan's brother did not wish to abandon the Haninozuka heir, or his sister.  He was too devoted to them, and to family tradition, to strike out and make a separate life.  Even though he was equal to them, he chose to continue serving.  When he married and had a son, he instilled these same values in his son.  Tradition and service, above all else.  And so in the end, the Morinozuka family's position did not change as much as Ichigo-sama had hoped."

Arai frowned.  "So even now, Takashi-san was his cousin's....servant?  It never seemed like that, when I first met them."  
"Ah," said Sakura.  "Those two were special.  Equals from the beginning, and the closest of friends since they were old enough to recognize each other.  As you know, Bocchama is quiet-natured, and always has been.  But Haninozuka-kun understood him, even when his cousin didn't speak.  I think Bocchama depended on that."

"Then, if they were so close, what happened?" Arai asked.  
Sakura pursed her lips and considered how to answer.  "Mind you," she told him, "this is only guessing on the part of an old housekeeper, who has listened to too many years of servants' gossip.  Bocchama may tell you a very different story than this, but here is what I think.  I think it began with the Master Haninozuka, and instructions he may have given his son, Mitsukuni-kun..."

*  *

"You know Takashi, if you haven't practiced your Kendo in awhile, this could be hard work for you too," Mitsukuni pointed out.  
"I haven't," Mori said, realizing this was an angle he hadn't considered.  He'd kept in condition, thanks to all the walking, but flexibility could be a problem.  "I'll put extra time in."

"Starting at Arai-kun's pace, you should be okay," said Mitsukuni.  "Have you....talked to him about Kendo?"  
"It hasn't come up," Mori said, thinking that his cousin wasn't talking about the sport in general, he was talking about that final match and specifically, Nakamura.

"Do you think he should understand, maybe?" Mitsukuni asked.  "I mean, if he had to give up soccer because he was hurt, then maybe it could help him.  Knowing you had to give up something you loved too."

"Oh," said Mori, surprised a second time by his cousin's perspective.  "But I chose to quit Kendo.  It isn't the same."

"It wasn't an easy choice, though, was it?"  Mitsukuni asked.  "And yet you still have a future without it.  You've moved on, and found there are other important things to do, right?  It might encourage Arai, if someone told him his life doesn't have to be only one thing.  Someone who's been in his place."

Mori thought about what he had told Arai in the courtyard, encouraging him to trust enough to be truthful.  Perhaps, he considered, he could stand to follow his own advice.

"I'll see," he told Mitsukuni.  

*  *

"...So you see, child, Bocchama has endured serious hardship.  But he has survived it, and since he has found a friend, I have seen him greatly improved.  He is present in this world again; he speaks, he makes choices, and he takes action on behalf of someone he cares for.  For a year, he did none of these things.  Do you understand the importance?"

Arai stared at Sakura, stunned by all he'd learned.  "I--I had no idea."  He shook his head, wide-eyed.  "I knew he'd had some problems for awhile, and things were getting better lately.  But I didn't know he'd....that it was that bad."

"Please realize I do not share these things idly," Sakura told him.  "I tell you, because you are someone Bocchama holds in high regard.  He has called his cousin on your behalf, and now you understand the significance of that, correct?"

"It's complicated," Arai frowned.  "But I think I understand.  He takes his friendships seriously, doesn't he."

"Remember what I said about promises;  a Morinozuka's friends may be few, but they are for life," Sakura replied.  "Now.  As his friend, you've become responsible for what I have told you.  How you act on this knowledge in the future is up to you.  But I would ask you to consider, for Bocchama's sake, what is best.  Choose wisely, for him."

 

*  *  *  *  *


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five

 

For the first ten minutes on the balance beam, Arai had felt self-conscious.  He stood one foot before the other, wavering and wobbling, a short distance off the ground.  Takashi stood on the beam in front of him, spine straight and shoulders even.  Motionless, in his starched and pleated uniform, bare feet flat on the beam.  Arai couldn't help feeling under-dressed in his old athletic sweats and socks, but Takashi had told him to wear whatever was comfortable for exercise.

Somehow, Arai had imagined more actual exercise than this:  standing on this low wooden beam, looking at Takashi's broad back for what seemed like an eternity.  He did his best to copy Takashi's stillness and silence, but he'd never learned to meditate, and after those initial ten minutes or so, Arai found himself restless and fidgety.

"So, um," he finally asked.  "What does this exercise do, actually?"  
"Strengthens the weight-bearing muscles," Takashi said, still looking straight ahead.

"Really?"  Arai looked down at his legs.  "But I'm not doing anything."  
"You're holding yourself in one place.  Your muscles are working," Takashi assured him.  "You'll feel it after awhile."

"How long is awhile?"  Arai wondered how long he would have to keep his mind occupied in this quiet bare room, with nothing to do.  
"An hour is good, to start."

He tried to imagine another fifty minutes of counting the threads in Takashi's kimono, and wobbled slightly.    
"To start?"  he said.  "You usually do this for more than an hour?"  
Takashi turned his head, and Arai spotted a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth.  "I can stand here for six."

Arai was floored.  "You uh, work up to that, I'm guessing."  
"Hm,"  Takashi agreed.  "It took years.  Mostly because I was young, and hadn't learned to be still."

There was a chance he was supposed to take that as a hint, but Arai couldn't help asking.  "How old were you?"

"Four, when I started training."  
"Ah.  So you've been at this a while."  Arai couldn't remember anything he'd done when he was four, but he was sure it was nothing as disciplined as this.

"It was tree stumps the next year," Takashi offered.  
Picturing a short, fat oak stump, Arai said, "Seems like that would be easier to stand on."

Takashi made a circle with both hands, about the diameter of a teapot, and held it above his head so Arai could see.  "It was this big.  Out in a pond."  
"What?  How did you do that?"  
Sounding amused by Arai's disbelief, Takashi said, "The water was cold in winter." Adding as an afterthought, "Good incentive not to fall."

That gave Arai plenty to think about for the next ten minutes, by which time he was distracted, and then totally consumed, with his feet aching.  He inched around on the beam, trying to find a more comfortable position, until Takashi spoke over his shoulder again.    
"Doing okay?" he asked.

"Just fine," Arai told the guy who'd been tossed into ice-cold ponds when he was five.  

He held out another three minutes, and just couldn't take it anymore.  "My, uh, heels are bugging me a little," he confessed.

Without even thinking about it, Takashi shifted forward a fraction, and spun a smooth one-hundred-eighty degrees, on the ball of one foot.  His hakama billowed about his ankles, and then settled a second after he did;  his feet perfectly centered on the beam.

It was a good maneuver, and breathtaking at close range;  Arai hadn't remotely suspected Takashi could move like that.  Swift, precise....graceful seemed a strange word to add, for someone so obviously masculine.  But in this case, it fit too.

"Incredible," Arai said, before he could stop himself.  "How did you do that?"

"Practice," Takashi shrugged.  "You could learn it."  He held his arms out toward Arai, and told him to bring his back foot forward.  
"Wide step," he said.  "Balance on me, if you need to."

After standing for twenty minutes, his legs were stiffer than he'd expected, and it was possible Arai wasn't as focused as he could have been. His foot landed off-center of the beam, and he bobbled, swayed, and at the last second, grabbed hold of Takashi's arms to keep upright.  
"Whoops, sorry," he breathed.

"You're good," Takashi said, steadying him effortlessly.  "Get your feet in a straight line.  Shoulders square," he coached.  "Head up."

"God, this is dancing lessons all over again," Arai muttered self-consciously, surprising a real smile out of Takashi.  

And maybe it was the proximity distracting him, but the smile lit up out of nowhere, just an arm's length away, and it was like being amazed by that tight showy spin all over again.  Everything went sort of fizzy in Arai's brain for a moment, and he forgot to think about anything except Takashi's arms under his hands, and this smile that for once wasn't relieved, or reassuring, or tired, or bemused.  Just honest and warm, from his straight white teeth, all the way to his eyes.

"More weight on the forward foot," said Takashi, who obviously possessed superhuman discipline when it came to tedious exercises.  "Don't rest on your hip."

Arai moved obediently, but he was watching that little crease still tugging up the corner of Takashi's mouth, wondering what it might take to tempt one more of those smiles out of it.  It might not be the best goal to focus on, all things considered, but it did make the prospect of another half hour standing totally still seem a lot more bearable.

In fact it was conceivable, he thought, that with surprises like these, he could end up enjoying these lessons a good bit more than he'd expected to. 

*  *

Four days later, things weren't so easy.  Arai was back on the balance beam, one foot before the other, but in a half-crouch.  His thighs were quaking, and his hair and sweatshirt were soaked.

"Ah jeez," he hissed, and bit his lip.  His knees were slightly bent, and he kept his palms pressed together, fingers pointed straight down from just below his front knee.  
"How long?" he asked Takashi.

"Three minutes.  Not bad."  Takashi was off the beam this time, watching him from the side.  "Can you hold for two more?"  
"It burns," he panted.  
"Right here?"  Takashi pointed down the side of his thigh, which felt like somebody had a blowtorch to it, on the inside.

"Yeah.  And the--hamstrings.  Man, it's killing me."  
"Good," Takashi nodded.  "Count to one hundred, and you can rest."

* *

"...seventy-six....seventy-seven....seventy--ah--eight....seventy-ni--."  He wobbled dangerously, and Takashi was there in an instant supporting him, controlling his sideways tumble to the floor mats.

"Ahh, damn it!" Arai gasped, stretching his trembling legs out, and collapsing on his back.  "Damn, I was that close."

"Good job," Takashi grinned, sitting back on his heels.  "Sixty seconds longer than I thought."  
"Wha--?  You bastard!" Arai laughed weakly, between hard breaths.  "Why didn't you say something?"

"I don't want to set your limits," Takashi said, as if it were obvious.  "Try to do more than you think you can, and you'll have better progress."

Arai caught his breath, and mulled that over some.  "Did your Sensei teach that?" 

"Hm," Takashi nodded.  "He said our bodies don't know their limits.   Most of the limits--," tapping the side of his head with a forefinger, "--are set here."  He thought a moment and added, "That's why we respect a strong opponent, in martial arts.  They push us further than we think we can go.  Even if you don't win, you can see past your limits, in competition."

Still feeling too shaky to sit up, Arai contemplated the ceiling.  "I never thought about it like that."  He looked over to Takashi, with a question that had been on his mind for awhile.  "Is that why you haven't been competing?  You ran out of people to challenge you?"

Takashi looked surprised, then shook his head.  "Not at all.  There are plenty of better swordsmen, at the higher ranks.  It was--."  He paused and frowned down at his knees, like he had more ideas than words to put them into.

"My opponent was injured, in my last match.  It was an accident," he began.  "He was already hurt, and shouldn't have been in the ring.  But it--when he went down...."  Takashi shook his head, and huffed out a breath, frustrated with the difficulty of explaining.

For all that he didn't talk much, Takashi seldom had this kind of trouble expressing himself.  Arai propped himself up on his elbows, very curious now.     
"Was he a really good opponent, like you talked about?"  
"Yes," Takashi nodded firmly.  "I was best in my rank for years.  But Nakamura pushed me to get even better."

Arai understood that Kendo was mainly about swordsmanship, and form.  It wasn't a full contact sport like Karate or Judo, and injuries--at competition level, anyway--were rare.  So it made sense, that Takashi might be shaken up over a good competitor getting hurt.  But it seemed a little extreme to him, to quit something you excelled at, just because somebody else got hurt.  He wondered what he was missing, here.

"Were you and Nakamura friends?  Did you like him?" he asked.

Takashi stretched his fingers flat down his legs and studied them.  Then he rose, in a clean perfect motion Arai frankly envied, and strode toward off toward the wall cupboard across the room, returning with two bottles of water.  He handed one to Arai, and knelt again.

"The trophies, and the points.  The rank.  They meant nothing," he finally said.  "Being in the ring with Nakamura, that meant something.  Outside the ring, it was...."  He shook his head.  "Complicated."

 _...with Nakamura_ , echoed in Arai's head for a second, and then it all clicked.

"Oh," he said.  "I get it."

Takashi looked up at him sharply, and his already straight posture went tense, anticipating.  It took Arai off-guard, until he realized that Takashi was waiting on his reaction; expecting some judgment, or decision on Arai's part.

"You wanted him to notice you," Arai guessed.  He knew plenty well what that was like.  And the rest seemed clear, too.  "But he didn't notice, did he?  Not in the way you wanted, anyway."  
Takashi's jaw dropped a fraction.  He blinked.  "How did you know?"

"Hello?" Arai waved his hand.  "In love with Fujioka Haruhi for two years?  And she had no idea?"  He chuckled ruefully over the memory, and Takashi relaxed.  Nodded.

"Of course.  You understand," he said.

 

And Arai did understand, but the more he thought about it later....well, Haruhi was Haruhi.  Blunt and single-minded, refreshingly honest, but almost painfully literal about things.  This Nakamura person, on the other hand.  Was he some kind of an  _idiot?_    How could anyone fail to notice Takashi, and miss seeing how amazing he was?  He always had time to listen, he made a person feel like their thoughts and questions really mattered.  

 _He makes me feel like I matter,_ Arai concluded.

Takashi went out of his way to be useful.  He helped in quiet, unobtrusive ways; never making a big deal about it.   But the more Arai observed after that conversation, the more he saw how Takashi was always there, ready to step in with a hand, or a word to help him.  He was always steady, competent;  he always seemed to know what to do.

It was because he paid attention, Arai realized.  Takashi kept quiet, and kept his eyes open, and he saw all the things that busier people missed.  Like the morning Arai had to come early for their session, because his uncle needed him for inventory the rest of the day.  He showed up in the freezing darkness of six a.m., thinking he'd have to wait in the kitchen, but Sakura-san sent him straight to the pool house.  Where it was warm, and the lights were on, and Takashi was already warming up.

"I thought we'd stretch today," Takashi told him.  "So you can save your legs for work."

When they were done, Takashi brought him back to the house, where Sakura-san had a huge hot breakfast laid out.  Arai was starving, but he was thankful for more than the food.  It was the whole gesture; Takashi getting up extra early for him, anticipating that Arai would be on his feet all day, doing heavy lifting, and doing what he could to help.

He thanked Takashi, and Sakura-san, profusely of course.  And of course they both waved it off graciously, saying it was no big deal, they were glad to do it.  By that time however, Arai had done some serious thinking, and he felt it was time he did something for Takashi, to let him know he was appreciated.  After enough observation, he understood that Takashi noticed him, had been taking special notice of him all along, in his modest, unobtrusive way.  He'd also decided for certain that Nakamura was an utter moron, for missing out on this.  The friendship, and the caring, and the way Takashi lit up the world when he laughed.

For someone like that, Arai thought, what you did was more important than what you said.  Arai needed to show his friend how much he meant.  And going about it in the same quiet way Takashi had done only made sense.  He needed to watch the way Takashi did, and look for simple things that would prove Arai had been paying careful attention.

Arai and his uncle worked hard in the store for the next two days, doing the inventory.  Most of the work was repetitive, fairly mindless, but Arai was practicing paying attention, and willing to look anywhere for good ideas.  

It was just his luck maybe, to turn over the box of suede work gloves, forgotten for ages on the top shelf of the storeroom.

*  * 

Mori was sweeping the long porch of the pool house, as he did every day since he'd begun work with Arai there.  It was a habit he'd learned from Sensei, in the Tokyo doujo:  every morning, up and sweeping the wooden walkway, the steps, and down to the paving stones of the courtyard.  

The ritual was soothing; a process of unhurried deliberation that brought order to his surroundings, and his thoughts alike.  After a half-hour or so of sweeping, Mori could go into his makeshift doujo feeling set to rights with the world, with his mind clear, ready for his discipline.

He was wearing the work gloves Arai had given him a few days ago, and though they still needed breaking in, he was pleased with the fit.  Also they were warm, which was nice on these mornings.  In the spring, perhaps he could put them to real use around the place; his time spent reading Ichigo's ledgers, and the old almanacs, had given Mori some compelling ideas.  For now though, until the freezing weather had passed, he was content to wear them for sweeping.

He kept the broom whisking in a rhythmic, forward motion, from the south corner of the porch toward the steps.  Peripherally, he was aware of Hito strolling about the pool, inspecting the grout, and the set of the stone paths along the perimeter, gradually closing in toward the pool house.  He was accustomed to the old gardener's lengthy, roundabout approach by now, and continued to sweep, knowing the man would address him when he was ready.

Hito reached the stair railing in due course, and kicked his boot gently against the base, checking the wood for soundness.  
"Those are good gloves you have there," he observed, when Mori paused his sweeping.  "Ought to last you a long time."

"Hm," Mori nodded, flexing his fingers against the leather.  
"Don't imagine your Sensei ever kept gloves around, for doujo labor," Hito grinned.

"No," Mori agreed, thinking that Sensei's lessons generally included a healthy amount of discomfort, on purpose.  Then, guessing that if Mori didn't tell him, Hito would only go pester it out of Sakura-san, he added, "They're a gift, from my friend."

"Ah," Hito gave a nod of curiosity satisfied.  "Sensible friend you have.  No point being more uncomfortable at work than you have to."  
He turned and peered thoughtfully around the foundations of the pool house, poked the toe of his boot here and there, into the earth.

"Been more rain than frost this winter," he remarked.  "Weeds will be coming up thick in the spring."  
Mori wandered to porch railing, looking down at the ground with interest.  "What do you do about that?" he asked

Hito straightened.  "Most places, I'd spray the weeds.  But this close to the pool and the well, chemicals are a bad idea."

Giving his gloves a thoughtful look, Mori said, "I could pull the weeds here."

Hito pretended to look surprised at the suggestion, though Mori strongly suspected he wasn't.   "I suppose you could, at that.  Bocchama did well enough at the Tokyo doujo, pulling weeds."  He grinned.  "In fact, the gardeners there used to talk about hiring him on."

"They should have said something," Mori deadpanned.  "There were days I would have taken them up on it."

Hito blinked in genuine surprise, and then roared with laughter, bending over and slapping his knee.  
"I believe you would have, too!"  His laugh tapered off, and he said, "Well.  If Bocchama wants to pull weeds at his doujo here, he certainly has his gardener's permission.  Perhaps his friend could learn weed-pulling, to help."

Mori frowned a little.  "I wouldn't make him do that."  
"Why not?" Hito shrugged.  "May turn out to be a useful lesson to him, the way it was for Bocchama."  
"Sure," Mori muttered.  "If the lesson was for him to dislike me."

Hito chuckled, then said, "You've given your friend a great deal, you know.  And Arai-san strikes one as the type of person who always likes to repay his favors.  It might be good, if Bocchama asks for his friend's help now and again."

This was something Mori hadn't considered before.  He looked at his gloved hands, wondering for the first time if maybe Arai hadn't merely given them as something useful to Mori.  If perhaps he'd intended a message, of sorts, with his choice of gift.  It was something to consider, certainly, but for the moment, he looked to Hito with a different sort of consideration.

"Cultivation," he said.  "It's what you know best, isn't it?"  Thinking the man had once referred to Sensei's disciplines with that term, and apparently looked at friendships as something to be cultivated too.

Hito tilted his head, curious.  "One could say that," he allowed.

"What do you know about farming?" Mori asked.  "On land like ours?"  He phrased the question to include his gardener deliberately;  it seemed absurd to claim sole ownership of the area, just because his name was on it, and Hito knew this property better than anyone   
still living.

From the look the man gave him, the point was understood, and approved.  In fact, Hito looked at him like Mori had just risen a few notches in his personal estimation, which Mori found distinctly rewarding.

"How much free time does Morinozuka-sama have?" Hito finally said, by way of answer.

It always felt odd, being called by his father's title, but Mori supposed the point was well made:  Hito was willing to discuss serious business with him, in regards to the estate.

Mori gave a significant glance at the broom in his hands, and looked back at Hito.  He was sweeping the doujo porch, not performing brain surgery.  The old man took the point, and chuckled.

"All right, if Morinozuka-sama permits, I will meet him in the library after lunch.  I have some maps of the property he may be interested in seeing."

"I'd be very interested," Mori assured him.  "Thank you."  
"Hmm," the gardener nodded, and then gradually meandered on his way.

*  *

The pale January sun was fading down the horizon when Mori left the house, and headed back through the pear orchard, to the hill path.  The sky was bleached to soft monochrome, and clouds in pigeon-feather greys blanketed the southern horizon.

Cresting the hill, Mori could see the thin mists rising from the fields all around, blurring the line between earth and sky.  Wind rose in a sleepy sigh without sound, carrying the crisp bite of mountaintop snows and the dry powdery tang of yellowed grass.  Mori closed his eyes and breathed deep, the air from frozen alpine lakes frosted by snow drifts, and forest tall and silent as a long-abandoned temple.  He felt the peace of winter's emptiness sinking into his bones, as gently as the sun's fading warmth, settling on his skin.  At the teahouse steps, he sank down to watch the sun's edges slowly dissolve into cloud and mist.

Gradually, he became aware of a sound; a soft, regular tread of boots on gravel.  Not far off, and coming closer.  He stirred and straightened, listening closely to the even beat of two sturdy legs, marching up the hillside path.  He smiled at the simple proof of Arai's progress;  the lingering hurt and halting left behind in confident strides.  He wondered whether Arai was coming just to show him this, to say perhaps that now he could walk, he was ready to learn to run.

For among many things Mori hoped to see this summer (the orchards trimmed and heavy with fruit, the fields turned lush in leafy green rows), he wished most to see Arai running again.  Down the hillside path and through the orchard, up the long winding driveway to the house;  Arai could run any and everywhere he wished to go, as far and as fast as his feet would take him.  Mori only asked that he could see it.

But when Arai rounded the hilltop, approaching the teahouse steps, Mori was reminded that summer was a long way off yet.  They were still at the mercy of winter, and harsh freezes could descend any time.

The young man's shoulders were low, and his forehead creased with dismay.  He marched on to the edge of the steps, but then stood like he'd been cornered there.   By way of greeting, he turned a pleading look on Mori and said, "I'm sorry.  I couldn't think of where else to go."

Mori reached toward him immediately.  "Come, and sit."  
Arai looked at the offered hand--startled, grateful--and took it, allowing Mori to pull him closer, down to the steps at his side.

"Oh wow. This has been a hell of a day."  He shifted about, agitated, still gripping at Mori's hand, until Mori squeezed back and aimed with their clasped hands toward the light fading into the horizon, leaving a delicate pink stain on the clouds.

"Watch," he told Arai.  "We can talk after."

The young man gave him a puzzled, conflicted look, but he settled some next to Mori.  The sun dimmed, cooling at the edge of evening, and Arai's anxiety slowly unraveled into weariness.  Mists and clouds merged into shadows until only cold, bluish light lingered on the hazy fields.  Finally, Arai surrendered a deep sigh, and tilted against Mori's shoulder.

Mori worried briefly that it was selfish to bask in this trusting touch.  But night was coming on soon, and he had gone so long without.  He rested his cheek on Arai's head, and let his thumb wander, soft and aimless as a lullaby melody, over Arai's knuckles.  With another sigh, long and shuddering, Arai eased in closer and carefully, Mori brought his free arm up, around his friend's shoulders.

"Thank you," came a whisper in the dimness next to him.  "I needed this."  
Mori's heart gave a painful sideways thump in his chest, and he closed his eyes against a powerful wave of feeling.  Arai's hair tickled his lips, and he smelled of wood smoke and cloves; a warm welcome home on a long and lonely night.

When the first stars peeked from behind the clouds, faint sparks in the twilight, Mori asked, "Do you want to walk down?"  
"Not really," Arai murmured.  Tentatively, his arm circled Mori's back, and he huddled closer.  "Not yet."  
Mori turned his hand in Arai's grip, so their fingers twined together.  "Do you want to talk now?"

Arai's shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath.  "My dad called today.  Th-they're packing up my room.  He said if I want my stuff, I'll have to ship it."

Mori straightened to look down at him.  "Can you do that?  Do you need....help?"  
"Mom says she'll send everything, and I can pay her back.  And money's not a problem.  I've saved plenty.  It's just."  Arai slumped a little, sounding bleak.  "How could he still be mad at me, for not....what?  Doing what he wanted?"

Mori, whose own father hadn't spoken to him in a year, shook his head.  "I don't know."

"My uncle said if summer business was good, I could get a raise.  I could afford my own place in town.  But dad acts like that's nothing.  And I just.  I don't  _get it._ "  He sat up and looked at Mori, and in the last dying light, Mori could make out the deep hurt, the too-bright shine in his eyes.  "I can't go back there, just to make him happy.  He wouldn't even be happy, then."

At first, Mori didn't trust himself to speak.  In one sharp snap of recognition, he'd finally identified the person who'd blamed Arai for his injury, and all it had cost him.  And he couldn't believe he hadn't caught on sooner.  Because of course it would be his own father, the one person who had the greatest power of judgment over a son.

"You don't have to go back," Mori told him, controlling the urgency he felt, for his friend's sake.  If he himself had to guarantee Arai's lifelong security--and he could, easily; he knew the numbers in his trust fund well enough--he would see to it that Arai never had to surrender himself to a future he dreaded.  Though he suspected such measures, gratifying as they might be for him, were unnecessary.  Arai had brought himself this far, and he was plenty capable of going on from here, on his own two feet, so to speak.  And as recent experience had shown, the only thing Arai really needed was encouragement.

"You can do anything you want," Mori told him.  "I heard you walk up this hill on your own.  I've seen you work hard, and grow stronger.  No one else can set your limits, remember?"

Arai lowered his gaze.  "I guess I don't want much," he said quietly.  "As far as money, or y'know, to be important with people.  I'd rather have--."  He trailed off, looking at his hand in Mori's.  "I'd rather be happy, doing something simple.  I don't care if it's hard work. Just as long as it's worth it."

Mori contemplated the deepening shadows past the hill, where the land slumbered on like a kingdom under a fairytale spell, waiting for someone to come and wake it.

Simple, he thought.  Of course.

"My gardener tells me there's demand for local produce here," he said after a moment.  This was news he'd kept to himself for the last two weeks, wanting to be certain, to have a viable goal in mind, before he shared it with Arai.  Because Arai could figure in this plan, he thought; there was a place in this for him, if he wanted it.  Now that Arai was essentially committed to staying in Karuizawa, and seemed ready to consider a future here, Mori felt ready to share this idea that had gradually taken hold in him;  a worthwhile aim for his own future.

He explained his long discussions with Hito, their hours spent studying the estate maps and the old records together, concluding that if they cultivated a small portion of the property to begin with, the operation could conceivably pay for itself that season.  Even now, Hito had pointed out, there were laborers in town who'd be happy to come and clear the orchards of deadwood, trim back the overgrowth, and ready an acre or two of field for spring tilling.  The men could use the work, and a bonus gift of winter firewood would surely attract willing help.

Arai listened with growing interest, as Mori spoke, while the last light drained from the sky and the landscape.  
"What do you think?" Mori finally asked him.  "Would you say it's worth doing?"

"Wow.  I'm--uh.  You're asking my advice?"  Arai sounded surprised.  
"You do work in a grocery," Mori pointed out.  "You have an idea of cost, and demand.  Do you think your uncle would support some investment in local produce?"

"Oh.  Well."  Arai considered a moment.  "He's pretty careful about his suppliers.  But if it was high quality, and the prices were better.....  Since the big local farmers are going for rice and soybeans, our produce is getting more expensive, because it has to be shipped in.  The tourists will pay more, but our profits still go down...."  

He paused his wandering train of thought and said, "Are you serious about this?  I mean, you'd really stay here and farm this place?"

"I want to try," Mori said.  "Why leave all this fallow?  If it could be useful to the town, and the people here, it's worth trying.  Start small, and if we break even, that's fine.  If there's a profit, I could fix the irrigation system, and do more next year."

"You've put a lot of thought into this," Arai observed.  
"I've had time."

After a lengthy quiet, Arai drew himself up straight next to Mori.  "Could I help you?"  he asked.  
"Could you sell pears and melons?"

Arai chuckled softly.  "Somebody said I could do anything I want.  Yeah.  I could sell pears and melons."

"Good," Mori smiled, feeling Arai's fingers warm and comfortable between his own.  He gazed back out into the sharp black winter night, beyond the edge of the hill, where the fields slept, dreaming of summer.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 _[end Book Four]_


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